By Barbara Falconer Newhall
“Hey, Barbara. Come look. Christina’s bald.”
“Yes, bald. Her picture’s on Facebook.”
I dashed upstairs. I usually do a slow trudge up the stairs when Jon invites me to look at something he’s found on the Internet. Dutifully, I coo at the baby elephant or hiss at the mouthy politico, then I trot back downstairs to my writing room or the kitchen.
Not this time. This was an emergency. I sped up the stairs. Our 32-year-old [Read more…]